


A Proper Selection

by Marlon



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Huxloween 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 22:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlon/pseuds/Marlon
Summary: With a week of wintry storms besieging London, Armitage is happy to be tucked away warm and dry in his tidy tailor and small goods shop. An unexpected knock at the door after closing time brings a strange and fantastical man into Armitage's life and by the end of the night, he's certain nothing will ever be the same ever again.





	A Proper Selection

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small idea that I've had bouncing around in my head for more than a year. I saw a post on tumblr with the following poem: A bat was caught out in a storm and very badly fared so an umbrella-man he sought and had himself repaired (Peter Newell’s Pictures and Rhymes, 1899). The idea was too cute for me to let go and here we are. This is my entry for Huxloween 2019 even though it's not scary, gothic, terrifying, blood-soaked, or in any way horrifying, Armitage simply has a very strange night.
> 
> The link to the post is here: https://sith-fedaykin.tumblr.com/post/178080401576/yesterdaysprint-peter-newells-pictures-and

It was a dark and stormy night, as had been all the nights leading up to All Hallow’s Eve. London is currently being battered by a days-long wind storm that tears the leaves from the trees, knocks over signs, and causes the flags to crack and snap on their flagpoles.

Armitage closed his shop at six o’clock on the dot but he still has several hours worth of work ahead of him before he’ll be able to go to his upstairs apartments and relax with a decadent bath and a whiskey. He hurries outside into the wind and rain to close the heavy wooden shutters that shield the tall glass windows of B. Hux and Sons from the elements. Once the shutters are locked securely in place, the cold wind pushes Armitage back inside his tailoring shop, leaving his hair ruffled out of its normally orderly style and his shirt collar askew. 

He pulls down the paper shade which covers the window of the front door then he locks the door for the night, throwing the heavy deadbolt closed and latching the chain into place. He smooths his hair back from his forehead as he crosses the floor of his shop, his polished oxfords clicking across the weathered floorboards with a satisfying snap. Leaving his suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair behind the counter, Armitage fetches the broom from the supply closet in the workroom then returns to the shop floor. He rests the broom against his shoulder as he rolls up the long sleeves of his pressed pale yellow dress shirt - Armitage always dresses his best, even if he spends most of his days in the workroom behind the shop or in the shadows of his more illustrious clients measuring and fitting their new garments precisely - he is his own best advertisement.

Sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows, Armitage begins the task of cleaning up the shop for the night. The blustery wind storm that has been sweeping through London has left the pristine floorboards of his shop littered with crushed bits of leaves strewn across the floor like little bits of autumnal confetti and Armitage doesn’t care for it one bit, he has a reputation to uphold after all.

B. Hux and Sons have had a Royal Warrant stretching back to Armitage’s many-times great-grandfather. Bartholomew Hux had supplied Queen Victoria herself with the finest lace, fascinators, umbrellas, and other small goods. The relationship between the Hux family and the Royals is a long and fruitful one. He glances up at the elegant script of the Royal Warrant that hangs above his work table, a small smile of pride upon his face.

A particularly strong gust of wind rattles the shutters and he can hear the shrieks and giggles of pedestrians hurrying by, their voices swelling louder as another surge of cold wind whips up the street.

With his sweeping now complete and the floorboards gleaming in the soft yellow light of the evening, Armitage sets the broom aside and returns to his work table. A very organized and exacting bride and groom have ordered very specific wedding fascinators for their upcoming nuptials along with a set of six colour-coordinating umbrellas, in case rain should mar their perfect day. The umbrellas he has already ordered from his supplier and they are sitting in the workroom waiting for his skilled hands to stitch the specially commissioned nylon onto the canopy.

He’s well into the work of creating the first fascinator when a loud crash from outside rattles everything on his work table. He wonders if he should check in case a tree has come down, but as he listens for a minute, there’s no further commotion beyond the howling of the wind. With a shrug, Armitage returns to his work.

Three sharp, staccato knocks sound on the door.

Armitage looks up sharply, his breath caught in his throat. He glances down at his watch; it’s eight o’clock, the shop has been closed for two hours now and the business hours are clearly displayed out front. He returns his attention to his work, whoever it is will have to return in the morning.

The knocking sounds again.

Armitage sets down his needle and thread to cautiously approach the door. He peeks out from around the paper shade to see a tall, dark figure filling the doorway.

“Hello?” A deep, slightly panicky voice calls out.

Armitage steps back from the door a pace and searches his pockets for his phone, a glance over his shoulder shows that the phone is sitting on the worktable beside the disassembled fascinator.

“Hello,” The rumbly voice called out again. “Can you help me please?”

“We’re closed,” Armitage inches closer to the door. “You’ll have to return in the morning.”

“It’s an emergency.” The voice is plaintive now.

“A tailoring emergency?” Armitage mumbles to himself. The voice outside laughs.

“In a way, yes.” Merriment has replaced the traces of panic in the voice, but the urgency is still there. “Please, can you help me?”

With some reluctance, Armitage withdraws the deadbolt and slowly opens the door as far as the chain will allow then peers around the doorframe into the pitch-black beyond.

A tall man stands on the porch shrouded in shadow, Armitage can’t make out much beyond an awkwardly endearing smile and fathomless dark eyes. 

“Alright, you can come in,” Armitage closes the door to remove the chain. “But I have scissors in here, and I know how to use them.”

The odd man laughs as Armitage swings the door open and stands aside to allow him to enter. The man steps across the threshold, bringing with him the cold wind and another swirl of dried leaves. Armitage frowns at the debris on his newly clean floors. He closes the door then slides the deadbolt into place and turns to the man.

With a strangled scream, Armitage flattens himself against the chilled glass of the door. The man he has let into his shop is tall, taller even than Armitage himself, but that’s where any similarities end. Sprouting from the man’s dark, lustrous hair is a pair of sparkling onyx horns that rise up from his temples then curve sinuously down to either side of his head, like ram’s horns. From the man’s back, an enormous pair of wings stretch out, filling the small shop completely, brushing the walls and rafters. The great wings are dark, oddly feathered in some parts, and leathery in others. The feathers shine an iridescent black-blue in the yellow light of the shop and Armitage sees instantly that some of the primary coverts are bent and crumpled out of shape. A long whip-like tail, ending in a tuft of more glossy feathers, thrashes nervously around behind the man.

As if the horns, wings, and tail weren’t strange enough, the man is dressed as if he’s stepped out of the pages of a Victorian novella. Armitage can’t help but cast a professional eye over the man’s perfectly-tailored black frock coat, beautifully embroidered waistcoat, and snowy ascot. His eyes are drawn up to the extraordinary face when the man clears his throat.

“Is Batholomew here? I need his assistance.”

Armitage, still pressed against the door, gapes like a fish before he finds his words again.

“Ah,” Armitage stumbles over his words. “Unfortunately you’re about a century too late, Bartholomew has been dead for over a hundred years.”

A sorrowful and worried expression flashes across the other man’s face.

“Oh curses,” He mutters to himself. Then to Armitage: “I’m grieved to hear it, Bartholomew was a good friend and a skilled man with a needle.”

“Um, I’m sorry?” Armitage replies in consternation. He gasps and presses himself back against the door as the winged man finally turns his dark gaze on him in full.

The man crosses to Armitage in two long strides to capture Armitage’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. The man takes a long, leisurely look and his scrutiny is unnerving - he seems to be looking directly into Armitage’s heart and divining all of his deepest, darkest secrets and desires.

“You look just like him, you must be related.” The man says as more of a statement than a question.

Armitage nods faintly. “He was my great-great-great-grandfather - this is the same shop he founded over a century ago.”

“So you can help me then?”

Armitage nods weakly - he’ll say and do whatever it takes to keep this horned man happy and out of his shop. 

The man steps away from Armitage and turns to present one of his enormous wings for Armitage’s inspection.

“It’s my wing,” He says unnecessarily. “The wind… I was caught unawares by the sudden storm and now my wing is damaged.”

“I see,” Armitage carefully scrutinizes the damaged area without touching it. He looks up to meet the man’s gaze. “What do you want me to do exactly?”

“Stitch it back together, of course.” The stranger explains slowly as if Armitage is an especially dull child. “Look-” He swings his other wing around. “Bartholomew helped to repair me once before.”

“May I?” Armitage waves his hand towards the wing.

The man nods in permission so Armitage gently grasps the delicate edge of the wing; up close, the strange man’s wings are even more beautiful. The covert feathers are glossy black, ever so slightly pearlescent as Armitage carefully angles the wing to better catch the light. Where there would normally be the primaries and secondaries on a typical bird, the man has instead a buttery soft stretch of leathery skin which reminds Armitage of a bat rather than a bird. The delicate ridges that make up the spines of the wing look so fragile, Armitage is sure that the slightest gust of wind would break them. On one wing, he can see some silvery scarring, these must be the places that Bartholomew apparently helped to repair over a century ago. He strokes his fingertips down the scars then steps back.

“Shouldn’t you go to the hospital for something like this. Or a veterinary surgery.” He mutters under his breath.

“For one,” The man glances over his shoulder to fix Armitage in place with his glittering eyes. “I’m not going to that damned charnel house, I’d like to keep living if you don’t mind. Also-” His eyes flash darker with suppressed laughter. “I could hardly walk in there looking like this.” He twitches his wings out of Armitage’s hands and stretches them up high and wide until they nearly brush the rafters.

“So you’ve come here instead?” Armitage is more than a little confused. “This isn’t a surgery!”

The man looks sad as he settles his wings along his back. “So you won’t help me?”

“I didn’t say that!” Armitage bites his lip as his eyes dart from the huge wings, to the man’s sad eyes, and back to the wings. “I can try, just… just don’t get mad if it doesn't work.”

“You’ll be fine,” The man says, smiling broadly now that Armitage has agreed to help. He grips Armitage by his narrow shoulders and beams brightly at him. “You’re the grandson of Bartholomew Hux, I know you’re up to the task. Where should I sit?”

Helplessly, Armitage indicates the space in front of the triptych of mirrors to the side of his work table. With shaking hands, he fetches a chair and sets it down for the man who seats himself regally, sweeping his coattails and feathery tail out of the way before he sits. He unbuttons the silver buttons of his frock coat to reveal his beautifully embroidered waistcoat and stretches his wings out.

Armitage retrieves his basket of sewing implements from the window bench. He slings the fabric measuring tape around his neck as he brings the basket over to the chair. From behind his workbench, he gathers up the short stool he sometimes uses when he’s going to be hunched down working on long gowns or trouser cuffs. He sets it down behind the man then takes a few seconds to settle his rapidly racing heart and wipe his clammy palms against his thighs. He gasps as the whip-like, feathery tail wraps around his wrist and squeezes in a companionable way.

When the tail releases him, Armitage rises quickly to his feet and ducks under the wing to stand in front of the stranger.

“I’m Armitage,” He says. He’s not going to perform surgery on someone without being properly introduced.

“Kylo.” The man says in response, engulfing Armitage’s narrow hand with his much larger one. “You look just like Bartholomew, you know, you have the same eyes.”

“The genetics are strong in the Hux family, apparently,” Armitage says as he ducks under the wing. “My sister and brother have the same red hair.”

Kylo’s gaze flits up to Armitage’s bright crown of hair, then he smiles delightedly. “It’s quite dashing.”

“Thank you,” Armitage mumbles as he ducks back beneath the wing so escape Kylo’s piercing eyes.

Apprehensive about the unusual task set before him, Armitage buys himself a little time before he actually has to start repairing the leathery wings by setting to rights the bent and ruffled covert feathers of the wings. He works quickly yet carefully, sliding his fingers down the glossy feathers to slip them back into place. When all the feathers have been reset into their interlocking pattern, Armitage sweeps his hands over the arch of each wing, delighting in the feel of the warm, sleek feathers beneath his hands.

A sound similar to the rumbling of an idle car engine breaks his reverie and he pulls his hands away from the feathers. The rumble cuts off abruptly.

“Were you… were you purring?” He grins as he learns around Kylo’s shoulder to catch a quick flush of embarrassment light up the other man’s face.

“I do no such thing!” Kylo sniffs haughtily.

“Of course not,” Armitage replies, smiling to himself as Kylo plucks his coat collar up to hide his face.

Armitage hooks his foot around the leg of the small footstool and drags it closer. He seats himself then reaches for his sewing basket to dig through his supplies searching for his spool of fine black silk thread. As he threads the needle, the wind rattles the shutters again. A gentle rain had started sometime within the last hour, and the soothing sound of the rain on the pavement outside lulls Armitage into an easy calm - tailoring is something he knows like the back of his hand. That he’s now applying his skilled hands to the wings of a strange horned man matters not, he knows what he’s doing.

He gently grasps the edge of the wing and examines all the tears in the velvety soft skin, running his fingertips over the skin gently. There is one rather large tear that will take several minutes to repair as well as several smaller rips that only need a few stitches. Kylo’s long tail whips around buffeting Armitage in the shoulder several times.

“You’ve got to hold still,” Armitage admonishes. “I could do more damage to the delicate skin if you jostle my arm.”

Kylo catches his own tail in one hand and draws it around the chair to his lap with a muffled “sorry”.

With a brief squeeze to the wing so that Kylo knows he’s beginning, Armitage sets himself to his task, making tidy, precise rows of stitches in the wing with the black silk. With any luck, his rows of small stitches will hardly scar and Kylo’s wing will look as good as new in no time at all. If the prick of the needle in and out of the fragile skin of his wing pains Kylo, he says nothing at all, sitting stoically in the chair, holding his wings steady for Armitage to work upon.

After twenty minutes, Armitage snips the loose threads from the last row of stitches to the smaller tears now only the long rent in the wing remains. Armitage takes a few minutes to examine the torn edges of the wing to see how they will fit back together.

“You have very gentle hands.”

He looks up to see Kylo gazes down at him, eyes bright. His stunning onyx horns catch the light as he moves his head.

Armitage blushes, the heat courses over his cheeks up to his hairline and down his neck to his chest.

“Kylo! Don’t say things like that when I’m working!” He chances a glance up at Kylo and meets his glittering eyes with a smile.

Kylo laughs again as he turns to face the mirror. Armitage shuffles around on the footstool, getting himself comfortable in order to begin the work of sewing up the long tear. He rethreads his needle and gets to work. Between stitches, he and Kylo strike up a conversation and Armitage is fascinated to hear more about Bartholomew and the early days of his business. Kylo, it seems, also briefly knew Bartholomew’s son and Armitage's great-great-grandfather, Cormac Hux, but it must not have been a close friendship since Kylo was unaware of Bartholomew’s death.

As Armitage works, the line of neat stitches grows, and he and Kylo chat about their lives. Well, Armitage does most of the sharing. Kylo, he realizes, has divulged very little about himself. Armitage is intrigued but his more probing questions are deftly deflected. 

A few more minutes pass before Armitage knots off the final stitch and carefully snips away the loose threads. He stashes his needle in the pincushion and drops it back into the basket before he heaves himself to standing.

“Can I just see one thing…” He asks as Kylo nods.

Armitage’s hands brush over the plush fabric of Kylo’s frock coat as he gently turns out the collar to read the tag. “B. Hux and Sons” is there on the label, but it’s an older script, they haven't used that fanciful font for their branding for decades. Indeed, they haven’t sold this style of coat since the 1860s but the impeccable tailoring is a dead giveaway - only B. Hux and Sons' work is so precise.

He’s silent as he brushes his hands down Kylo’s shoulders, indicating that the other can stand and Kylo does, rising gracefully to his full height. He beats his wings in the air, the stitches seem to hold and no grimace of pain flits across his face, so Armitage considers it a job well done. 

Kylo grasps Armitage’s hand and squeezes warmly. “Many thanks, Armitage, you’ve done a remarkable job. My wing feels stronger already.”

“Ah, you’re welcome,” Armitage says faintly, not sure what happens next. This evening has been so strange if he were to ever tell anyone about it, who would believe him?

Kylo squeezes his hand again then gently traces his fingertips down Armitage’s cheek, making the heat rise in his face again.

“I’m glad to have met you,” Kylo says, letting go of Armitage's hand to reach into an inner pocket of his frock coat. He withdraws a cream-coloured card and presses it into Armitage’s unresisting hand. “As payment, if you ever need a favour, please contact me, but I’m sure I will see you again.”

With a snap of his fingers, the locks on the shop door disengage and the door itself swings open. Laying a rather courtly kiss to Armitage’s knuckles, Kylo then vanishes out the door in a whirl of wings.

Armitage hurries to the door to peer out. He searches up and down the street but sees no sign of Kylo. Glancing up, the night sky is clear and cloudless, the wind has finally blown the storm away. There’s no sign of Kylo at all on the street, or in the sky above, if Armitage didn’t have the card in his hand he would almost believe he dreamed the whole thing. A glimmer catches his eye and he stoops to the pavement to retrieve a glossy black feather. 

Feather in hand, Armitage returns to the warmth of his shop, absently closing the door behind him. He examines the card - Kylo Ren, Prince of Hell - it says on one side, and the other, a complicated looking Latin incantation.

Armitage looks between the card and the feather then over to the wicker chair still in front of the tripartite mirror with his stool and sewing basket sitting companionably beside it. He smiles to himself as he slips the card and feather into his pocket.

He hopes he sees the intriguing Kylo Ren again.


End file.
